his pallet now, he saw the sun barely lighting the window, and today he’d planned to get up and walk or know the reason why. He made himself roll onto his knees and then, bracing his hands against the wall, he pushed up onto his feet.
For a moment the world whirled around. He bent his head and waited out the vertigo. Then he sat in the chair and pulled on his battered boots. His heart pounded and that scared him. Had this fever affected his heart? Visions of old men sitting on steps in the shade shook him, moved him.
He straightened up and waited out a momentary wooziness. He shuffled toward the door and opened it. The family’s dog lay just outside. Brennan held a finger up to his mouth and the dog didn’t bark, gave just a little yip of greeting. Brennan stepped outside and began shuffling slowly down the track toward the trail that he knew must lead to town. The dog walked beside him companionably.
Brennan tried not to think, just to put one foot in front of the other. A notion of walking to the road played through his mind. But each step announced clearly that this would not be possible.
About twenty feet down the track, his legs began to wobble. He turned, suddenly wishing he’d never tried this stunt.
“Brennan Merriday!” The petite spinster was running toward him, a long housecoat nearly tangling around her ankles.
He tried to stand straight, but his spine began to soften.
She reached him just as he began to crumple and caught him, her arm over his chest, her hand under his arm. “Oof!”
Slowly she also crumpled. They fell together onto the barely bedewed grass, he facedown, she faceup. She was breathing hard from running.
“Brennan Merriday,” the little Quaker scolded, “what was thee thinking?”
“Why do you always use both my names?” he snapped, breathing hard too and saying the first thing that came to mind that didn’t smack of rudeness.
“That is the Quaker way, our plain speech. Titles such as mister and sir are used to give distinction, and all are equal before God.”
She lay beside him, her arm lodged under his chest, much too close to suit him.
“God and Quakers may think that but hardly anybody else does,” he panted. He rolled away to stand but halted when he’d gained his knees. He had to get his breath before trying to stand to his feet, get away from this soft, sweet-smelling woman.
The Quaker sprang up with—he grumbled silently—a disgusting show of energy. “I’ll help thee.”
“I prefer to get up by my lonesome, thank you,” he retorted, his temper at his own weakness leaking out. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye.
Her hair had come loose from a single braid and flared around her shoulders. Her skin glowed like a ripe peach in the dawn light. He took a deep breath and tried to turn his thoughts from her womanliness.
“Why did thee do this without discussing it first, Brennan Merriday?”
“I reckon,” he drawled, “I overestimated my strength, Miss Rachel.”
“I don’t think thee understands just how ill...” She pursed her lips. “A little patience is what is needed now. I had planned to help thee take a short walk today. It is exactly what is needed.”
“Well, I saved you the trouble and took my own walk.” He couldn’t stop the ridiculous words.
She gave him a look that mimicked ones his sour aunt Martha had used often when he was little.
“I’m not a child,” he muttered.
A moment of silence. Miss Rachel pressed her lips together, staring at him. Then she glanced away. “I know that,” she murmured.
Slowly he made it onto one foot and then he rose, woozy but standing.
She waited nearby, both arms outstretched as if to catch him. “Should I call Noah to help?”
“I can do it myself. Just let me take my time.”
The family dog stayed nearby, watching as if trying to figure out what they were doing.
“You can go on in,” he said, waving one hand.
She studied him. “Very well, but since thee has so much energy, thee can help me today. I am going to try a new recipe and I need the walnuts I bought in Saint Louis shelled and chopped.”
“I’ll look forward to it, Miss Rachel,” he said with a sardonic twist and bow of his head.
She walked away and he had to close his eyes in order not to watch her womanly sway. Even a shapeless housecoat couldn’t completely hide her feminine curves. Why hadn’t some man in Pennsylvania married her? She wasn’t ugly or anything. And why was he, Brennan Merriday, drifter, thinking such thoughts?
He was the last one to speak about getting married. His wife had betrayed him, but perhaps from her point of view he’d betrayed her. Either way, Lorena was dead and he had no business wondering why someone was or wasn’t married.
* * *
After breakfast, Noah went outside to work on some wood project. Brennan watched him leave, wishing he had the strength to do man’s work. The pretty wife and children were off to visit friends and that left him alone with the spinster.
Miss Rachel began setting out bowls, eggs, flour, sugar and such. “I am baking rolled walnut yeast logs today. I recalled that it’s one of Noah’s favorites and I want to thank him for his kindness to me.”
Her remark caught Brennan’s attention. So she felt beholden to the Whitmores, too? And then he recalled that she had said she’d arrived on the same riverboat as he had. “What’d you come here for? To find a husband?”
If looks could slap, his face would have been stinging.
“No, I am not looking for a husband. I could have had one back in Pennsylvania. That is, if I didn’t mind being a workhorse, raising six stepchildren under the age of twelve.” Her tone was uncharacteristically biting.
She reddened. “I didn’t resent the children, honestly, but if I’d felt any love for their father...or sensed that he might ever...” Her jaw tensed. “I like to do business but marriage should be a matter of the heart, not something akin to a business contract. Doesn’t thee agree?”
A matter of the heart. His jaw clenched and his unruly mind brought up Lorena’s face. Miss Rachel wanted to be loved, not just needed. And he’d found out that his beloved one could let him down, turn her back and walk away.
Wrenching his mind back to the present, he held up both hands. “I get it. I ain’t looking for a wife.”
“That suits me.” She lifted her chin. “I’ve come to set up in business here.”
He couldn’t mask his shock. “You plan to have your own business?”
“I intend to open a bakery and sweet shop. And Pepin is just the kind of town that can support one.”
“Are you out of your mind?” he blurted. “A bakery in this little half-horse town?”
“No,” she said, dismissing his opinion. “I am not out of my mind. Pepin’s a river town. Boats stop daily, dropping off and picking up passengers and goods. I will sell my confections to the river boatmen and passengers. Candies and baked goods. I’ve rarely met a man without a sweet tooth.”
He glanced directly at her for the first time. “You good at makin’ candy and such?”
He glimpsed a flash of pleased pride in her eyes. “People have said I have a gift for creating sweet things.”
“Well, when am I gonna taste some?” he asked with a sly glance.
He’d made her smile. “Well, if you start shelling these walnuts, that would be today.”
She